


Degausser

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day before you leave for the last time, you and all your meager belongings, the scars you’ve hidden, the stories you’ll never be able to tell, right before you leave for good, your father gives you one last present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**DEGAUSSER**  
SUPERNATURAL  
John/Dean/Sam; (non-con) John/Dean; (non-con) John/Sam; (implied) Sam/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; non-consensual sex; underage sex; abuse; prostitution; character death  
Next: [MILLSTONE](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/4096.html)

  
The day before you leave for the last time, you and all your meager belongings, the scars you’ve hidden, the stories you’ll never be able to tell, right before you leave for good, your father gives you one last present. His fingers pressing warm against your chest, pressing hard, he’s gliding the tip of the Sharpie wide, drawing symbols he’s picked out of his journal, symbols of love, symbols of protection. The day before you leave, the sun dipping slowly beneath the mountain range, the shattered rays of light that paint red and blue and gold across your body, across your father’s, the growing darkness, up here the stars are so bright. Your father’s weathered face; he’s picked up wrinkles somewhere between Lawrence and here, sometime since your mother died. The deep worry lines, they criss cross the corners of his mouth, the wells beneath his eyes, the blue veins that spider web just below his skin.

Your father’s growing older and you’ll never be able to bear it. His mouth pressed tight together, the lines on his face, his hands are pushing so hard into your skin, so deep, that you have to bite your lip to swallow back sound. His hands and his mouth, you taste blood and he’s only halfway done, the black marker consuming your body like a disease, thick and all over, eating away at your flesh. As soon as your father finishes a symbol, he seals it with a kiss, lets it simmer and burn, lets it work the magic into your body. Your chest and shoulders and back, they’re covered with marker, covered with symbols that should protect you from harm, should guarantee your safety.

Your father and his sad eyes, he doesn’t know that you’ll be leaving, he has no clue. Your father and the way he looks at you, the way he strokes the Sharpie across your skin, the way he lets his lips linger, he loves you as much as any father would, maybe so much more, maybe so much less if he wasn’t pining after Sam. The way his wedding band leaves a trail of cold and numb as he slides his fingers up your arm, as he cradles the side of your face. You and your father and the way he kisses you, swipes his tongue across your lips, he loves you, but it’s not enough to keep you here. You and Sam and the way you two dance around each other, he wants you, but you just want to keep him innocent. None of this is working, none of this is going to keep you from doing something terminally stupid, something to ruin all of your lives.

This black marker that seeps like shadows across your body, your father and the way he loves you, none of this is keeping you alive, none of this is helping you. Your father and the way he looks at you, with his wrinkles, the creases that cover his face, he’s touching you but he’s really seeing Sam. The way his fingers glide over your skin, the way it tickles and makes you gasp for breath, your father and the way he kisses you, he’s touching your lips but he’s really kissing Sam. The way your father loves you, his hands and your body, the way he bites the place just underneath the edge of your chin, just before your ear, the way he makes your neck arch, none of this is ever gonna be good enough. The way he touches you, none of this is ever gonna save you.

Sam and his innocence, it’s about time somebody else’s shoulders took over all this weight. Sam and the way he looks up at you like you’re some kind of goddamn savior, like you’re actually this really good person inside, it’s about time he found out what’s really going on. It’s about time he realizes how everything really works.

Your father and his fingers all over you, the black Sharpie that rolls like waves across your body, the day before you leave for the last time, the first time you’ll ever be alone, the first time you’ll ever leave your father for good, it’s about time you stood up to him. The first time you’ll ever disobey one of your father’s orders, the first time you’ll ever leave Sammy behind, but it’s about time that you start thinking about yourself. You and your father and your need to get the fuck out of here, he knows jack shit and you’re just relishing in all of this. You and your one big secret, you’re fucking elated.

The day before you leave this all behind, before you leave for the first time, the last time, the day before you never fucking look back, your father’s drawing symbols of protection for you, on you, and his hands have never been able to keep to themselves. His hands and your freshly painted body, it’s only gonna be like this for a few more hours, it’s only gonna be this bad until you can make your escape. His hands and the trail of marker from your stomach to your collar bone, this dark path, his tongue fits perfectly between the lines. His hands and the way he holds you, the way he never touches you gently enough, the way he never kisses you soft enough, this is just because he wants you to be Sam. Your father and the way he uses you, he’s never whispered that he loves you because it’s not you that he wants, it’s not you he’ll do anything for. Your father and his fucked up complex, it’s not like he loves you enough to save you, it’s not like he loves you enough to stop touching you.

Sam has no idea how good he has it.

The day before you leave for the last time, the day before you leave for good, your father and his power, his hold over you, he only has one more day until you turn around and disappear, he only has one more day before you stop answering to his beck and call. Your father and all of his orders, all the things he’s asked you to do, your father and everything you’ve ever given to him, for him, none of this is gonna matter tomorrow, none of this is gonna matter ever again. The day before you leave for the last time, the first time, your father and his hands all over you, his mouth and yours, the way he pretends to love you, he’ll never be able to touch you again.

Your father and everything you’ve sacrificed to keep him from hurting Sam, maybe it’s about time you just let it go. Maybe it’s about time Sam learns his own damn lessons. Maybe it’s about time your father realized how fucked up all of this really is. Your father and his hands on you, he pretends to love you just so he can use you and maybe you’re just so fed up with all of this, maybe you’re just so done playing the martyr in this family of fuck-ups. Your father and the way he only really loves Sam, wants Sam the way he has you, wants Sam instead of you, well maybe you’re just so done playing along with all this shit. The way Sam wants you like your father wants him, maybe you’re just so done acting out this love triangle, maybe you’re just so done pretending to be fine with this.

The day before you leave for the last time, you and everything you’ve ever accomplished in your life, all the lives you’ve saved, all the demons you’ve hunted, maybe it’s about time you just gave up. Your father and the way he’s killed you, maybe he’ll forget all about you. Your father and all of those nights he’s tried to love you the way you love him, maybe it’s just time to stop trying.

The day before you leave for the last time, the first time, your father’s hands and the way they’ll never come off you, the way they’ll always leave their mark, the thick black lines like paint all over your body, maybe it’s just time for Sam’s turn.

Maybe it’s just time to start over.

***

The day your father sends you out on your own hunt, Sam tucked safely away at his side, he gives you the keys to the Impala and you just can’t stop driving. This isn’t a spur of the moment kind of thing; you’ve been planning this for months. This isn’t some stupid act of defiance, this isn’t any stunt Sam would pull, this is yours and yours alone. Your foot pressed hard on the gas pedal, the sun’s teasing its way over the tops of the trees, and you’ve been driving all night long but you’ve never felt more awake in your life. You’ve never felt more alive.

This is it, it’s over. Your father will give some kind of half-hearted attempt at finding you, maybe track you the way he’s been tracking the demon all these years, maybe look for some kind of paper trail, but you’ve been so careful, you’ve been so smart. Your father and his overdeveloped sense of possession, he’ll try to find you, he’ll try to hunt you down, but you’re two steps ahead of him already, and with you leaving here, with you leaving him and Sam alone, he’s already got everything he’s always wanted. He’s already got everything he could never have, everything he’s never allowed himself to have, and he doesn’t need you, not anymore. Your father and his stupid sense of accomplishment, you and your stupid sense of pride, he’ll never need you again.

Your hands gripping white on the steering wheel, the windows rolled all the way down, maybe the only thing you’ll ever miss will be Sam. Maybe the only thing you’ll ever regret will be leaving Sam. You and your stupid sense of guilt, it’s not fair, and you’ll be the first to admit it, it’s not fair leaving him with dad and what he’s done to you, what Sam has to make up for. It’ll never be fair, but maybe it’s time Sammy learned the hard way. Maybe it’s time Sammy learned what you’ve done to protect him all of these years, what you’ve done to keep your father away from him. It’s not fair, but maybe Sam needs to understand just how much you really love him, just how much your father has never loved you.

The wind that sweeps through your hair, maybe life isn’t fair, but you’ve never been one to cry over it, you’ve never been one to wallow. The sun that breaks over the trees, the golden rays that stream through the windshield, that hit your face, life isn’t fair, but maybe it’s time for you to start hitting back. The sun that’s blinding, maybe it’s time for you to start living the life you want to live, to do the things that you wanna do, maybe life’s not fair, but you’ve never been one for wishful thinking.

The day your father sends you out on your own hunt, you look Sam right in the eyes and try to convey to him all the things you’re sorry for, all things you won’t be able to do after you leave, all the things you can’t save him from. The day your father claps you on the back of your leather jacket and hands you the keys to the Impala, he says that he’ll see you in a few days and that you better not come back until you’ve killed this thing, this demon or spirit or whatever. The day you leave for good, for forever, the day you leave everything behind, Sam looks bored and vaguely upset, like he’s wondering why he can’t start hunting on his own, like he’s wondering when he’ll be considered old enough, and you’re trying your fucking hardest to say you’re sorry, to actually say it, and nothing will come out. Your father, the smell of his aftershave and the mouth you’ve kissed a thousand times, he smiles in his gruff way, and tells you to hurry up and get out of here. Your overdeveloped sense of remorse, the shame you’ll always carry with you, you don’t tell your father that you love him. You don’t say goodbye. You joke and laugh and say something smart, you tell them that you’ll be back, that they can’t get rid of you that easy. You tell them not to worry, tell them not to let your bed get cold, that you’ll be back in no time.

Your overdeveloped sense of emotion, you’re trying your fucking hardest not to ask them to make you stay. You’re trying your hardest not to ask them to beg. Your father and the way he looks at you, Sam and his pouty face, you’re trying your hardest to keep this smile on your face, to keep looking like everything’s gonna be fine, like everything’s normal. Your stupid sense of regret, you’re never gonna see them again and you can’t get this fucking grin off your face because if you even think about it you’re gonna break down and start crying. You and your stupid sentimental thoughts, maybe life’s not fair, but you’ve never been one to believe in any sort of god, in any sort of balance. Maybe life’s not fair, but you’ve never been one to blur the lines between black and white, right and wrong, you’ve never been one to believe in a better place than this.

The day your father sends you out on your own hunt, all alone, leaving for good, for forever, the day your father sends you off with not so much as a kiss goodbye, the day you finally realize what fair really means, Sammy and the way you’re just so sorry, you start the Impala and just drive. The directions your father gives you, a folded square of some map, you throw them out of the window the first chance you get. The knives your father leaves in the trunk, the guns, the holy water, all the rock salt he’s left you, that’s your parting gift and everything you have to start a new life, to start fresh somewhere else. All the knowledge you possess, everything you know about the supernatural, none of this is gonna cut it, none of this is gonna matter fuck all. The day your father watches you leave, him and Sam and all the things he’s always wanted to do, all things you’ve gotten in the way of, maybe life isn’t fair, maybe all you’ve ever been is your father’s plaything, his little soldier. Maybe you’re fucking sick of all of this, maybe you’re just done, just so over everything. Maybe you’re just burnt out and it’s Sam’s turn to take over, to deal with all the shit your father’s put you through.

Maybe this isn’t fair, maybe your life hasn’t turned out the way you wanted it to be, maybe you’re just ready to start over. Your father and the way Sam smiles just like him, maybe this is your new beginning.

The day your father sends you out on your own hunt, maybe life isn’t fair, but at least now you’ll get to see the Grand Canyon.

***

By the time you reach Arizona, Sam has left fifty-seven messages on your phone, and somewhere near the Grand Canyon, somewhere near your first stop on this pancake tour of America, you trade a blowjob for some cash at a truck stop. This is something you figure you’ve been doing for free for the last few years of your life, some talent you figure you’ve been wasting. And if you’re honest with yourself, if you’re being really honest, all of this has been such a long time coming, all of this has been on your mind for such a very long time. The messages that Sam leaves on your phone, the voice that rambles, he’s worried and angry and scared, and you know you should tell him the truth, you know you should let him in on this grand scheme of yours, but if you’re being really honest with yourself, you’re afraid he’ll accuse you of leaving him unprotected, of not caring what your father will do to him. Sam’s fifty-seven rambling messages, his voice is haunting you in your sleep and you have this sneaking suspicion that you’ll never be able to dream again, not without Sam crying out to you from the dark, asking you why you left him all alone, why you never cared enough. Sam’s fifty-seven messages, the ones that sound like you’ve broken his heart, your father hasn’t even called once.

Sam’s voice in the back of your head, you’ll never be able to shake him off, to let him go. Sam’s voice, it’s there every time you open your mouth for more money, it’s there every time you drive past all these national landmarks, it’s there when you eat and sleep and breathe. Sam’s voice, you have this sneaking suspicion that you’ll be able to hear it until the day you die.

Sam’s voice, the next time he calls you’re in someone else’s motel room, some dump by the side of the road, some shit hole that charges hourly rates, and the guy that has his hand gripping your hair, some trucker you never caught the name of, he throws back his head and asks if you’re gonna get that. Your mouth full, you mumble out words that sound like, “No way.” Your brother and his innocence, how are you gonna explain the way you’ve been making money. Your brother and his stupid voice, the one that, even now, even with this guy’s dick in your mouth, you can hear calling out to you, asking why you just left, how are you gonna explain what your father has been doing to you all of these years. How are you gonna explain why your father drove you out, why you had to leave, why you just couldn’t take it anymore. How are you gonna be the one to shatter everything Sammy has ever known.

Your mouth, there’s a reason your father kept coming back for more, and you have to bite your tongue to stop from telling this guy this, from telling this anonymous john anything about your private life, anything about why you’re here in the first place. Why you’re even doing this. Your mouth, this guy is loving it, and if you’re being really honest with yourself, if you’re being truly honest, some part of you is glad. If you’re being completely honest with yourself, there’s this little part of you that loves this, too, that loves what you can do with these guys, what you can make them become.

Sam’s voice in the back of your head, he’s asking why, he’s begging you not to go, and you’re thrilled just to be able to finally do something you’re good at, to excel at the only thing you can do well, and to get recognized for it, to have all these johns love you for it, if even for twenty minutes. Sam’s voice in the back of your head, you’re fucking ecstatic just to be able to shed the part of you that was your father’s, to let everything that was his become someone else’s. Sammy and his voice, he was the one stupid enough to trust you, stupid enough to look up to you, Sammy and his innocence, you’re just glad to finally shed the ghost of your father’s touch, inch by fucking inch. You’re just glad to be able to finally let go, to get rid of everything he’s ever done to you, to get rid of every one of your memories, to be able to make new ones.

If you’re really honest with yourself, you’re just glad to leave all those parts of your life behind, to start over again. If you’re being truly, seriously, completely honest with yourself, Sam’s fifty-seven messages like daily reminders on your phone, if you’re being really honest, you’re just glad your father hasn’t called.

You and your mouth, your father’s most favorite part of yours, you and all the trouble you’re getting yourself into, you and your mouth and this undiscovered talent of yours, you’re just glad that your father won’t be able to tell you how much he’s disappointed in you. You and everything you’ve done so far, every life you’ve saved, you and everything you’ve ever fucked up, all the shit your father has ever done to you, you’re just glad he’s not gonna pretend to love you anymore, to pretend he’s not pining after something else, after someone else. You and your mouth, all the good use you’ve put it to since your father had the balls to make his move, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re just glad he won’t be here to hog the spotlight anymore. Sammy’s rambling messages, the fifty-seven times he’s begged you to come back, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you’re just glad you’ll never have to listen to another one of your father’s orders ever again. You and your mouth and Sammy’s voice on your phone, maybe your father hasn’t called for a reason, maybe he just doesn’t miss you as much as you thought he would.

You and your mouth and everything you’ve ever done to get what you wanted, if you’re being really honest with yourself, you and Sam’s messages on your phone, maybe your father has done exactly as you expected, you and Sammy’s voice in the dark, maybe your father has just moved on to bigger and better things. If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you and Sammy and everything you’ve tried to protect him from, maybe you should just accept the fact that he’ll never need you again.

***

The farther you get from Kansas, the longer you stay away, the quicker Sam realizes that you’re not coming back. The farther you get from Kansas, this stupid pancake tour, the more time you spend away from your family, the more you let your phone just ring and ring, the less you dream. You’re not fighting monsters anymore, you’re not hunting things and you’re not saving people, you and your stupid sense of pride, you figure the world owes you this much. You and your stupid sense of entitlement, you figure your father owes you this much, all this time spent with him touching you, all this time spent with him whispering Sam’s name in your hair. You and your father and all the shitty things he’s ever done to you, you deserve this break, you deserve to be away from him, away from your home.

You drive to every American landmark that has made this country, this fucking backwards Hallmark Christmas card that has become your life, you drive and you stop to fuck for money and then you drive some more. This stupid sense of silent defeat, you’re fucking your way through every state and it’s funny because it’s so true, and it’s funny because it’s so fucking sad. All this shit that’s driven you out, that’s made you leave, it’s funny because it’s so true, all this time spent with your father in ways that never should have happened, all these desires in ways that never should have surfaced. None of these places, none of these statues or attractions or anything, none of this shit is gonna help you gain back what your father has ruined, what your father has taken away. None of these historic monuments, these tributes to some better life or national tragedy, none of this is gonna help you start anew, to start fresh, nothing you’ve seen or done is gonna ever erase how fucked up you are.

You and your stupid sense of arrogance, Sam hasn’t called in two weeks, all too aware that you’re not coming back anymore, all too aware that you could give a fuck about what he’s going through. All this stupid shit that’s gone wrong in your life, your own stupid sense of national tragedy, your own stupid sense of a better life, you figure whoever’s running this whole charade, well, you and your stupid sense of privilege, you figure he owes you a thing or two.

***

The next time Sam calls, six months after you leave for good, the last time Sam ever calls, you’re in Michigan visiting the Great Lakes and flirting with the idea of jumping the border for a few weeks. It’s a three day drive back to Kansas, give or take a blowjob or two for gas, but his voice is rolling over you in waves and there’s some kind of urgency, there’s some kind of fear shading the whole message. Your baby brother Sam, part of you feels like it’s just his time to grow the fuck up and start acting like a man. You and the way you follow orders from your father just like a trained puppy, you and your stupid sense of selflessness, the bigger part is telling you to save Sam before it’s too late, before he ends up like you.

Sam’s voice like a dream on your phone, you know you’ve heard this before, you know you’ve heard him say this, because this is what you hear every time you close your eyes, every time you pretend to sleep at night. You know you’ve heard this before because this is what’s on your lips every time you face yourself in the mirror, Sam’s voice, Sam’s mouth, he’s saying, help me, he’s saying how could you just leave me like that. Oh, Sam and his stupid sense of naïveté, he thinks everyone’s a good person until they prove otherwise, he’ll give anyone the benefit of the doubt, and that’s what gets him into trouble the most. Oh, Sam and his stupid sense of betrayal, Sam’s mouth and the way he looks at you, he’s saying, why, he’s asking you why you left him there all alone. You and your stupid sense of entitlement, maybe it was just your time to leave.

Sam’s voice, the voice of your baby brother, it’s been a long time coming, but maybe he should just fuck off and start taking care of his own problems. Sam and his stupid sense of innocence, it’s been a long time coming, but maybe he should just leave the same way you did, just leave your father to his own fucking shortcomings. You and your stupid sense of pride, maybe it’s time Sam found another hero. Maybe it’s time your father found another punching bag.

The next time Sam calls, you’re up and gunning it out of Michigan, out of this fucking tour, out of your new Hallmark life, you’re out and ready to go back to everything familiar. Sam and his stupid fucking voice, he’s sobbing and gasping for breath into your ear and even if he can’t tell you what’s wrong, even if he can’t get anything past his lips, you know, you just know. You and your stupid sense of intuition, even if Sam doesn’t say anything but nonsense, you know what’s happened to make him cry like that, you know what you’ve set up just by leaving. You and your stupid sense of vanity, even if Sam can’t say it, can’t voice this terrible indiscretion, you know what’s happened because the same thing’s happened to you.

Sam’s voice like an omen, you know the story before he even tells it to you, before you even make it back to Kansas. Sam’s voice like yours, like after that first time your father finally made his move, Sam’s voice like how you cried yourself to sleep that night, tucked tight into your brother’s warmth, really, there’s no hard feelings. Sam’s voice like yours, like what happened to you, really, this is all just some fucked up rite of passage, and now it’s Sam’s turn to become a man, now it’s his turn to take over your old life. Your father and his fucked up sense of right and wrong, no wonder he’s made you out to be this good little soldier, no wonder he’s been able to teach you not to feel any remorse. No wonder you’ve been so good at following him around all these years, really, with all this baggage, with all these issues. You and your father, you’ll never be able to understand how he makes you fall to your knees in acquiescence, how you caught his eye, you and your father and whatever kind of relationship you have, you’ll never be able to understand why he didn’t just choose Sam.

Six months after you leave for the first time, for the last time, six months after you cut your pancake tour of America short, six months after Sam’s message, you find yourself back in Kansas on the doorstep of your family’s motel room, on the doorstep of some huge disaster. Six months after your new life ended, after you left your family, after you left Sam, six months after you turned tail and ran, you find yourself ready to step back into your old shoes again. You and your stupid sense of cowardice, this is everything your father taught you not to do, everything he tried to shy you away from, this is everything you hate yourself for. You and your stupid sense of morality, this is everything your father hates you for.

Six months later, there is no fairy tale ending, there is no happily ever after, because you’re not anywhere close to being done with all of this, with leaving them like this. Six months later, you and your conscience, you’re still at odds over why you left in the first place, why you thought you hated them that much, and why you ever came back. Six months later, you and your stupid sense of honor, there is no happy ending because you’re back exactly where you started.

You and your stupid sense of naïveté, opening that door like you know what to expect, like you know what you’ll find, opening that door like you know what happened here, what went on. You and your stupid sense of sophistication, opening that door like nothing can faze you, you and Sam, this is exactly where you were five years ago when your father first started using you, this is exactly where you were when you completed your rite of passage, where you started your stupid sense of martyrdom. This motel room, just like the thousands before, the same in every state you’ve ever visited, you’ve ever hunted in, this is where you finally learned what it meant to be a man.

Six months later, you and your stupid sense of trust, opening that door of this stupid motel room, this shitty place, part of you isn’t even surprised at the amount of blood on the walls.

***

Your father says it was an accident. His fingers clutching the wound on his stomach, pressing hard against where your brother stabbed the knife in to the hilt, he’s lost a lot of blood, but at least he’s coherent enough to lie to you. His other hand, his bloody fingers, Sam’s blood, his blood, they’re gripping your chin hard enough to make you look in his direction, to make you watch him as he lies. His fingers smearing blood all over your chin, your mouth, your tongue tastes copper, and everything is just so fucking wrong. Your father and the way he thinks you’ll just believe, after all of this, after everything you’ve been through, after Sam. You and your father and this fucked up love, this is not even close to what you wanted in life, this is not even close to how you wanted this to end. Your father and the knife he gave you last Christmas, the knife you left behind, your fingerprints are gonna be all over the handle, Sam’s fingerprints, you and your stupid sense of immortality, but your father’s fingers all over your face, he’s just trying to get you to calm down.

Your mind goes from defense mode to covering it up in zero seconds flat, and you’re down on your knees in no time, mopping up the blood with something, anything, and you settle on the edge of your shirt, and you’re just so fucking stupid. You’re just so fucking stupid for ever believing they’d be okay without you, that they’d make it out of this. You and your stupid sense of arrogance, you’re just so stupid for thinking everything would work out the way it’s supposed to. You and your father’s training, you’re not even looking at Sam, but your fingers are deep in his blood, in the pools at your feet. You and everything your father ever taught you, you’re not listening to him, but your hands are making bloody fingerprints all over the floor, all over everything.

Sam’s voice in the back of your head, it’s on repeat, his voice begging you to come back, to come save him, his voice accusing you of not caring. Yeah, well, you guess he was right, after all. Your father and the pain in his eyes, his hand is on your back asking you to stop doing this, to come talk to him, but you’re just so fucking stupid to ever think Sam would go down without a fight, that Sam would ever be like you. You and your father and his mouth hovering over the shell of your ear, he’s saying it was an accident, he’s pleading with you to see that, to believe him, but you can’t, not now, not ever again. You and your hands all over Sam’s dead body, he was so beautiful, and you’re just so fucking stupid for realizing that now. Sam and his stupid sense of faith, well, look what happened to him. Sam and his stupid sense of innocence, well, look how your father tried to take advantage of that, and look how Sam paid the price.

You and your bloody hands, it’s your fault, it’s all your fault anyway, without your gun, without having shot Sam for attacking your father, for almost killing him. You and your stupid ego, your hands haven’t been clean since before you left.

Your father and the way he looks at you, maybe if he hadn’t have trained you to be such a good little soldier, maybe if he hadn’t of ever made his move that night, the night before your fifteenth birthday, maybe if he hadn’t of ever fucked you up this bad, maybe you wouldn’t have killed Sam. Your father and the way he’s made you into such a good little puppy, the way he kisses the side of your face, tells you that all of this was just one big accident, all of this was just one big understanding, maybe you’re not the one who went crazy all of those years ago, maybe you’re not the one who needed to leave. The way his hands stroke over Sam’s body, the place where you shot him in the back, this was all just instinct, this was all just one big reaction-fueled mistake, and now your brother’s never coming back. This was all just some huge fucking disaster, your own national tragedy, your own historical landmark.

You and your father and the way you can just pick up somewhere else, the way you can just leave this all behind, he’s ready to begin his new life with you, to leave. Your father and the way he’s trained you in the art of leaving everything behind and starting over with nothing, with nobody to lose. The way your father helps you carry your brother’s body to the woods, helps you burn him on his own funeral pyre, the way your mother was killed, the way Sam was supposed to have died, this time your father doesn’t help you save him because there’s nothing left to save. The way your father helps you bury the ashes in some shitty little clump of trees in the middle of nowhere Kansas, you’re leaving family members all over this state, and the way your father helps you say goodbye, this time he doesn’t give you any orders because there’s nothing left to give, nothing that you can’t do on your own, that you can’t think for yourself. The way your father holds his stomach like a wounded soldier, everything is just so fucking ironic, isn’t it, isn’t the world just some big fucked up circus that has you in the center ring, you dangling on the tightrope, ready to fall in front of everyone. Isn’t this all just a little too fucked up, even for your taste.

Your father and his mouth, it’s always getting you in trouble. Your father and the way he lies to you, you’re just falling back into step, you’re just always obeying his every word, no matter how much it costs you. You and your stupid sense of what’s right and wrong, well, look what happened when you decided to think for yourself, when you decided to do something that you wanted for a change, instead of making everyone else happy. You and your stupid sense of martyrdom, look what happened when stopped following orders.

Your father and the way he still touches you, the way he still calls you Sam, the way he still whispers your dead brother’s name in your hair, kisses the shell of your ear, this is just so fucked up. Your father and the way he still loves you, even after what happened, even after you killed his son, maybe you’re not the one who went crazy all those years ago, but maybe he’s just happy being delusional. The way your father runs his hands down your back, stops in the place where Sam was shot, stops cold and just holds his hand over your heart, well, maybe he’s just happy now that you’re back.

The way he tells you he loves, well, he’s never done that before, but maybe that’s just because he’s finally telling it to the right person.


	2. Millstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know.

**MILLSTONE**  
SUPERNATURAL  
John/Dean/Sam; (non-con) John/Dean; (non-con) John/Sam; Sam/Dean; Dean/OMC  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; non-consenual sex; underage sex; abuse  
First: [DEGAUSSER](http://community.livejournal.com/andletmestand/3835.html)

  
It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know. You follow him blindly, you follow him like nothing ever really happened, like you always have before. You follow him from Kansas into California, into your new life, into this gritty world of hunting he’s never shown you before, the bars he visits, the people he meets. This is something he’d never have shown Sam, you know that, this is something he’d never have shown you if you weren’t all he has. You and your little soldier act, you’re a carbon copy of your father right down to the emotional scars, the ache you feel in your heart and the mask you wear to protect it, you’re a carbon copy right down to the way you never talk about Sam, about Mom. You and your little warrior act, you’re a sheep in wolf’s clothing but only your father will ever know this, only your father really knows who you are. Now that Sam’s gone, anyway. 

It takes your father four months to track down all the information, all the shit he needs, four months to the exact moment you shot your baby brother, four months to the exact day you saved your father for the biggest price you’ve ever paid. Four months, but you never really get over these things, right?

From Kansas to here, your father’s picked up more scars, more wrinkles and worry lines and battle wounds, your father and his uncanny ability to dig himself into an early grave, this is like a fucking countdown. By some grace of the God you don’t believe in, you’re exactly the same as before. Not a physical scratch on you. From Kansas to here, your father visits seedy little out of the way motels for information, dirty hunters that look at you hungrily, that move their eyes from you to your father and back again, nothing you haven’t done before. From Kansas to here, your father slips condoms into the back pocket of your jeans while you sleep, the cheap one shot kind that comes from vending machines and sends you out at night to pay his debts, the trade for everything he needed to know. Your father and the way he pretends to sleep when you creep back into the room in the morning, the way you don’t touch him and he doesn’t look at you, he only ever really loved Sam, and maybe you’re just thinking that you shot the wrong fucking person back in Kansas. Your father and the way he never kisses you anymore, if only to close his eyes and think of Sam, if only to pretend your skin is really your brother’s, he hasn’t touched you since that night, since he burned his son into pieces of ash that scattered all over Kansas with the wind.

All this human tragedy, all this irony, it’s so fucking poetic that it makes you choke. All this personal heartbreak, your own little fucking landmark, your own tragic memorial, all this is for your father. Everything you do in life, every order you follow, every step you take, it’s all for your father, and maybe you’re thinking it’s about time you gave up on the hopeful wishing, maybe you’re thinking that your father has only ever used you for his dirty work and it’s about time to just give in to that fact, to accept your fate. From Kansas to here, maybe this little road trip has only proven how little he thinks of you, has only proven that he’s never really loved you, after all. From Kansas to here, maybe you’re thinking that you killed the only thing he ever cared about in life, this little road trip to all these seedy motels, all these strange bedrooms, maybe you’re thinking it’s about time you just gave up.

It takes your father four months to track down all the information, you and your price to pay, nothing you haven’t ever done before, it takes your father four months to sell you out for his final hunt, this denouement you’ve been waiting for, the end to all this suffering, the end to your own national tragedy. What’s funny is, you feel like you’ve been waiting for this your whole life. Even before Sam died, even before you shot him in that fucking motel room, even before you saved your father’s life, you and that tiny little body you held in your arms as you rushed from that fire, you and Sam and maybe you’re thinking that you weren’t supposed to save him that night. From Kansas to here, maybe you’re thinking saving little Sammy wasn’t in the books, wasn’t part of the deal, because what a stupid and utterly tragic way to end up, you and the life you gave him all those years ago, you and the life you took away. Maybe you’re thinking, even if you were supposed to save Sammy, maybe you’re thinking you made the wrong choice, maybe it was your father who was supposed to die, who shouldn’t have escaped the clutches of the fire that night. What’s funny is, maybe both your parents should have died that night, and, hey, maybe you’re thinking that you could get real used to that idea if only Sammy came back.

From Kansas to here, your life is just as shitty as you want it to be, sleeping and eating and fucking, these men that pull your hair and make you suck cock for a living, not even your own living, really, this is nothing you haven’t done before, nothing you haven’t been training for since fifteen, sixteen years old, this is nothing your father hasn’t taught you. Really, from Kansas to here, this is nothing you wouldn’t do a thousand times over just to have your brother back, to have your father pay for all the crimes he’s committed, to have him wallowing in his own tragedy, his own national disaster. What’s funny is, before your father ever touched you, you dreamed of a wife and a family. What’s funny is, before all of this shit, before your father and the way he can’t keep his hands to himself, before you ever left, before Sammy and his desperate pleas on your cell phone, you dreamed of raising a family someday, raising your children the way your father raised you, like hunters, like warriors. From Kansas to here, really, what’s funny is, your dreams are dissipating every time your father slips a condom into your pocket, every time you open your mouth wide and think of him touching you again, think of him and his hands and the way he whispers Sam’s name in your ear. What’s funny is, every time another hunter grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in his groin, you moan your father’s name and picture Sam’s sweet face. Before all this, really, you had the best family you could ever ask for.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know and, really, before all this, everything was fucking perfect. Really, from Kansas to here, you’ve ruined every life you’ve ever touched.

***

You and your father, nights like these, you go through two, three bottles of tequila, whiskey, anything you can get your hands on. You and your father, at least you’ve earned one thing from him, and that’s drowning your sorrows in cheap alcohol. Nights like these, you listen to every message Sam has ever left on your cell phone, every cry for help, every exasperated whisper, you’ve never once erased anything he’s sent you, anything he’s given you. Nights like these, your father is finally able to touch you again, his fingertips gliding against your soft stubble, the junction where your neck meets the underside of your chin, your prominent collarbone, all this flesh, nights like these your father doesn’t even mistake you for your brother.

You and your father, nights like these, it’s so fucking hard to forget that you killed your own brother when the skin underneath your mouth is your father’s, is your own flesh and blood. Nights like these, it’s just so fucking stupid, all this shit, all this tragic loss, nothing is ever gonna feel right again, nothing is ever gonna be worth it. Nights like these, you and your father, you ask him whatever happened to the demon, whatever happened to his fucking quest, you and your father with his hands slowly creeping up your thighs, down your chest, you ask him if he even cares that your mother’s death has never been avenged. Nights like these, this is what your father loves the most, this is what your father wishes for in the daylight, this is why he wants the condoms he gives you to be for him. You and your stupid cell phone, your brother’s voice like he’s still here, like he’s still with you, this is making it so much worse. You and your father and his stupid desires, the way you bite and scratch and make him bleed, his skin is starting to become your most favorite weapon.

You and your father, nights like these, maybe you’re starting to wish you’d never been born.

***

Your father and all the shit he’s keeping from you, this is too fucking much. And, hey, maybe you’re just starting to think that your family’s a shit magnet, and, hey, maybe there’s nothing you can do about it.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he starts shopping for boys that look exactly like Sam. First, you think it’s a replacement for Sam, for the brother you don’t have anymore, for the son your father has lost, but after a while, you realize it’s really only a replacement for you.

You start dreaming of your father at night, nights that find you in other hunter’s beds, the strangers that have lost their own sons, their own families, the strangers that are only using you for the worst kind of comfort. Nights like these, you dream of your father, his touch and his skin, his mouth on your flesh, nights like these, you dream of Sam and his stupid sense of naiveté, his stupid sense of right and wrong. If Sam had just never fought back, if you had just never left, nights like these, you dream of the ways your father will kill you, the ways your father will embrace this new son, this new life. You start dreaming of everything your father will take from you, everything you’ve taken from him.

Nights like these, your father starts drinking more and more. You find empty bottles rolling around bags filled with weapons, littering the backseat of the Impala, you find bottles tucked between the sheets of your bed. Your father and his stupid sense of self-destruction, he’s killing himself and you can’t do anything but watch. Your father and his stupid sense of vengeance, you’re so fucking tired of this. Nights like these, you dodging bottles of cheap liquor when your father can’t seem to touch you anymore, when your father can’t even seem to look at you, you and your stupid sense of justice, this isn’t what you signed up for when you decided to take over your mother’s position in the family. And maybe you’re just thinking that becoming your mom, losing your brother, fucking shooting him for the sake of your father, maybe you’re just thinking that this wasn’t worth it, that this is all just bullshit. Nights like these, you and your father and his drunken fights, his pleas for a better life than this, than you, well, maybe you’re just thinking that this whole God thing is a fucking sham, what with your track record and all.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he goes through boys like bottles of beer, quick and painless. He invites them back to your room, these all-American home-town boys, their athletic build and pretty faces, these precious boys, he invites them in and plies them with liquor and he watches you touch them. Nights like these, your father gets this glaze over his eyes, nights like these, sitting in an armchair with empty bottles strewn all over him, he’s calling the shots here and you and these boys, well, you all know it. Nights like these, you and your father and all these Sam look-alikes, these wannabes, well, you don’t know what your father’s planning, you don’t know what’s in store for you, but you know it can’t be good, what he’s doing, selling you out for information, hunting for all these boys, well, none of this will end well. You and your father and these boys you find on the street, their tattered clothing and messy hair, their skin smudged with dirt and bruises, this is a Sam you never wanna see, a Sam you never wanna have to find, living from hand-out to hand-out, getting paid for shitty hand jobs given to creepy men just like your father, getting paid to do what you do for free.

These boys, well, there’s nothing they won’t do for a fifty dollar bill. Your father takes all his hard-earned cash, all the money he makes from credit card scams and hustling pool, all the money he carries in the same pocket as the condoms, nights like these, he’ll throw away hundreds of dollars just to watch you blow some guy you’ve never met, just to find the right guy to replace you. Nights like these, your father watches with that shine in his eyes, with those bottles, with your condoms in his pocket, and, hey, if anything else, maybe you’re just glad that you’ll be getting out of this life soon. These boys, well, there’s nothing they won’t do for a little bit of release. These boys, your hand down their pants, their necks arched just so slightly, their gaping mouths, well, you and your stupid sense of imagination, sometimes you forget this really isn’t Sam. Sometimes, in the right moment, the right light, well, sometimes you forget your father’s scrutinizing gaze and the money tucked into their belts, and, hey, maybe you just want your old life back so bad that you can actually taste. These boys, it tastes like tears.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, after he finally finds the right one, the right Sam, well, there’s nothing to stop him from taking him with you on this little journey. There’s nothing to stop him from forcing this boy, this Sam, to go along with all of this. You and your father, you’re masters of espionage and, hey, what’s a kidnapping charge on top of it all?

This boy, he tells you his name is Dallas, but you’re not so sure if you believe him, not with all the shit you’ve pulled in your lifetime, not with all the masks you’ve hidden behind. This boy, Dallas, he looks like Sam in the way that his face is so innocent, so naïve, but you know this is just a trick to lure in those rich sugar daddies, those men just like your father, you know this is just his way of fooling everybody enough to keep them at arms length. You’ve used this trick yourself at times, you and your stupid sense of intuition, Sam used to say that you were great at playing dumb, and, hey, you’ve never stopped, not even after he died. Sam and his stupid sense of intellect, well, hey, he used to say he knew you inside and out, and, well, hey, maybe you’re just glad that the only person who got that close to you can’t spill your secrets anymore. Maybe you’re just glad you’re ready to keep this mask on for the rest of your life. This boy, Dallas, your father tells him his new name is Sam, his new family is you, and he’ll find himself on the wrong end of a shotgun if he even thinks about leaving. Dallas – Sam – well, he just shrugs and says as long as your father keeps slipping him fifties, he’ll let you call him anything. As long as your father keeps forking over the beer, half-empty and flat and mixed with whatever drugs he could get his hands on, well, this boy, this Sam, he’s just fine with pretending. This boy, he’s just fine with your hands on his skin, his mouth on your neck, this boy, nights like these, well, he’d rather you than some dirty old trucker with a nasty habit of beating boys like him to death.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, after this new boy, this new Sam, after your father tells you that you’re heading back to Kansas, heading back to Sam’s grave, to the site where you shot him, well, maybe you’re just not ready for any of this. Maybe you’re just not ready to give this all up just yet, and, hey, maybe you just don’t want to be replaced.

***

Nights like these, Dallas climbs into the back of the Impala with you, you and your father and his steady concentration on the road, he’s not fooling anyone, least of all you. Nights like these, Dallas climbs into your lap and traces the scars on your skin, the accidents of boyhood, the outlines of your own national disasters, he brushes his fingertips over the bumps and curves of your arms, your face, and he asks you what your life has been like so far, how everything has turned out. Nights like these, it’s you and your father and your pretend Sam, this boy who’s being paid to pass off for your brother, this boy with nothing left to lose, and, hey, maybe your life isn’t as bad as everyone thinks. Dallas and his sandy blonde hair, the strands that cover his eyes, well, he’s just as beautiful as Sam ever was, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that this could all be worse.

Dallas and his fingers and your skin, your father’s stiff neck as he wills himself not to turn around, not to check the rearview, well, hey, maybe this was a good idea after all. Dallas and his mouth on your jaw line, he tells you everything about himself, every detail, he tells you that this is a much better adventure than the one he got in California, a much better adventure than selling himself on the streets. You and your stupid sense of will power, well, it’s really hard not to just let yourself succumb to his advances, not to just let go of everything, Dallas and his tongue, well, it’s really hard not to just give in. Nights like these, Dallas and sights set on you, well, it’ll be really hard to leave all of this, it’ll be really hard to just forget.

You and your father, you and this boy, if this is supposed to be Sam, well, you’ve got the most fucked up family that you’ve ever seen, the most fucked up sense of morals than anybody you’ve ever encountered. You and your father and Dallas, this new brother, this new Sam, nights like these, well, you’ve got the most spectacularly fucked up sense of denial in the whole world. Dallas and his hands, your skin, your chest and back and, Jesus, but this kid is everything you’ve always wanted, and isn’t that the most ironic thing, because as soon as you get back to Kansas, well, you’re out of the equation, you’re just out of the picture. You and your father and everything you’ve ever dreamed of, every aspect of this family you’ve ever hoped for, just you and your father and Sam, well, this boy completes the whole thing, the whole image, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that you got the shit deal here, that you got bad end of all of this. Hey, maybe you’re just thinking that none of this is really fair anymore, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking that nothing will ever turn out this good again.

You and your father and this new boy, this new Sam, his fingers on your skin, his mouth on yours, well, hey, maybe you’re just thinking you should enjoy this while it lasts.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, you just can’t stop dreaming about Sam. And, hey, you just can’t stop dreaming about Dallas. Sam and his innocence, you never once told him that you loved him, you never once let him know that the way he felt, the way you felt about your father, you never once got to say that it was okay. You and Sam, there are so many regrets you have, there are so many things you wished you could have said before you left, before you killed him. You and this new boy, this new Sam, well, here’s the chance you’ve always wanted.

You and Dallas, he sleeps in your bed all the way to Kansas, the shitty motels you stop in, the shitty motels your father avoids like the plague, choosing instead to go drown his sorrows at the nearest bar, leaving you and your new brother all alone. Leaving you two by yourselves, there’s no chance of fucking up now, there’s no way you’ll ever leave his side now, not with what you know. You and Dallas, well, you whisper words into his hair just like your father, just like you’ve always wanted to do to Sam. You and Dallas, nights like these, you tell him that you’ll never leave him, that you’ll never let go this time, that you’ll never give him up. Dallas, his skin is so flawless, his face is so beautiful, and, hey, maybe you’re just really good at pretending, maybe you’re just really good at wishful thinking. You and Dallas, he’ll never be the real Sam, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest to imagine that he is.

Dallas likes to kiss every inch of your body, something Sam never did, something your father used to do, Dallas likes to lick and bite and kiss you so hard he steals your breath away. You and your new brother, well, your father never said you couldn’t, and, hey, maybe you’re just getting used to the idea of what being in this family calls for. You and Dallas, nights like these, well, maybe you’re just thinking the way your father does, doing what your father wants, and, hey, maybe you’re just turning into your father.

Dallas and his perfect body, he slides his hand down your chest, your stomach, his mouth against yours, he says, “Maybe this is just the way everything was supposed to work out.” You and your head thrown back, the way you bite your lip until it bleeds, all this shit you’ve been through, your father and his stupid quest for the perfect family, the perfect son, you and your stupid sense of rational, you say, I don’t think so. Dallas and his perfect mouth, he says, “Maybe this is just the way God wanted it.” You and your hands on him, all these sins you’ve committed, all these acts of treason, you and your mouth and Dallas’ skin, you and your stupid sense of logic, you say, You believe in God? Dallas and his beautiful eyes, he’ll never be Sam, and he says, “With all the shit I’ve seen, everything I’ve done, I better.”

You and your stupid sense of skepticism, you and your hands and the way he smiles under your touch, you say, Don’t bother, you and your stupid sense of cynicism, you say, It’s not worth it. The way you gasp for air, you say, Nothing gets better from here.

***

You and your father and Dallas, well, maybe you’re just thinking about how all of this will look once you’re gone. You and every order you’ve ever followed, you and your stupid little soldier act, well, maybe you’re just not comfortable leaving your father with another son to ruin, and, hey, maybe you’re just not up to the challenge of martyrdom anymore.

***

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know. After that, after he has his new son, after he has you and Dallas and everything, after he’s driven back to Kansas on a stomach full of beer and caffeine pills, well, your father tells you there’s something he needs you to do. This Reincarnation Rite, well, your father tells you that this is the reason you’ve whored yourself out for all those months, this little smile on his face, this little grin. He’s ecstatic and Dallas is looking to you like maybe he’s not so sure about this anymore, like maybe he feels like it’s time to get off the ride. You and your stupid sense of disparagement, you have to hold yourself back from telling him that you’ve been living this nightmare your whole life and you’ll be damned if he’s backing out on this one, you and your stupid sense of scorn, well, you have to bite your tongue from asking him if this is adventurous enough.

You and your stupid sense of contempt, you’re asking yourself where you went wrong, where you stopped noticing your father and started obsessing over Dallas. You and your own national tragedy, well, it’s too late for that, but you’re asking yourself how you let all of this pass by, how you let him do this.

Your father and his little smile, well, he says you were always bad at seeing the big picture, your father and his little grin, his wrinkles and scars and stories, well, he says you’ve never been smart enough at figuring this shit out on your own. You and your stupidity, well, he hasn’t said anything that you can deny, he hasn’t said anything that’s not the truth. You and your father, you’ve always been able to trust his judgment, always been able to follow his orders, even if they ended up kicking your ass, and, hey, maybe you’re just ready to start growing up.

This Reincarnation Rite, your father and everything he needs to know, well, hey, maybe you’re just thinking about someone else for once, and, hey, maybe you’re just thinking about Dallas. You and your new brother, well, once you get him over to your side, once he trusts you, after your father finally figures everything out, after all of this, well, it’s not that hard to get him to follow your orders, to become your little soldier. After all of this, these four months, well, it’s not that hard to get him prepped for his little denouement. You and your father and Dallas, well, what’s this family without someone’s life being threatened, right?

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, he tells you everything. These symbols he draws on your chest, the floor of the same motel room you shot your brother in, the same fucking room, well, hey, no matter what you do, you can’t escape this perpetual feeling of déjà vu, you can’t escape fate. This is your father gone insane, his search for the perfect family, his backwards quest, this is your father and this is everything he won’t give up, this is everything he won’t back down from. You were wrong, essentially, and, hey, isn’t that always the case, but you were so very wrong, about you, about Dallas, and you’re so very sorry. You whisper that to him, brush your lips against his hair just like your father does to you, kiss the crown of his head, touch his skin, just like always, and Dallas and his sense of trust, he’s stupid enough to believe you, even as he lays in the center of all of this. Even with his hands and feet tied, his mouth gagged, the tears that run down his face, he’s nodding his head and he’s pleading with you, and you can feel it, you can taste it, you and your stupid sense of intuition, you know that he still loves you.

You know where this is going. You’ve known for a while now, somewhere in the back of your mind, recognition about one of the symbols your father gathered, one of the symbols he drew on your chest, the Sharpie thick as blood, these black lines that grow deep on your skin. You’ve known ever since he found Dallas, sort of, maybe, somewhere in that skull of yours, you knew what your father was up to, him and his stupid mission, his final hunt, his denouement. You and your stupid sense of trust, maybe you shouldn’t be so harsh on Dallas for believing you, when you’re in the same boat with your father, when all you’ve ever wanted to do was put all your faith in him. Why should you be so hard on Dallas when you’ve just been stepping into your father’s shoes this whole time, creating your own little soldier, searching for your own perfect family, why should you judge?

Dallas and his stupid sense of naïveté, well, at least Sam would know what was happening, at least Sam could guess, but Dallas and all the things he’s never seen, all the aspects of your life you’ve kept from him, and, hey, maybe you’re just a little envious. Maybe with everything you’ve been through, every demon you’ve hunted, well, maybe ignorance really is bliss. Dallas and his stupid sense of innocence, maybe you’d just rather be him right now.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, it takes him five minutes to set everything right again, to set everything back to normal. Dallas doesn’t feel any pain, really, you made sure of that, a quick two minutes of using your shirt to press down on his face, cutting off all oxygen, and, well, he doesn’t even struggle that hard. You and your father, you’ve always been in this together, but killing humans has never been your strong suit, killing people that might not deserve it, killing for personal gain, but, hey, you’ve never said everything you do is always right. You and your father, he moves on like he’s been trained, setting up the candles, the gifts, setting up everything he’ll need, and, hey, his mouth so close that you could almost taste it, he’s saying, Don’t take too long, the body will get cold. And just like that, Dallas is a body, just material for your own private use, you and your new brother, well that didn’t last too long, now did it?

You and your father, his little grin, he says, Don’t worry, his hands on your chest, pressing hard, pressing gentle, you and your stupid sense of comfort, he says, “Soon you’ll have your brother back. Soon it’ll all be over.” You and your stupid sense of relief, well, hey, maybe that’s just all you over wanted.

You and your stupid sense of reassurance, you and your father, your stupid little soldier act, well, it’s never been just an act now, has it? It’s never been just a façade, a mask, really, because it’s been your whole life. It’s been everything. You and your father and your stupid sense of reliance, your training, all of it has been leading up to this moment and, hey, maybe you’re just not ready for this yet, maybe you’re just too scared. Maybe you’re just not worth all of this, and, hey, maybe it was stupid of you to even think you were. Maybe you’re just too fucking stupid.

Your father, his little smile, this Reincarnation Rite, well, at least something good is coming out of all of this. At least your brother will have a life again, even if it is in someone else’s body, someone else’s skin. You and your father and all these rituals, all these calls on some higher-up, some god, well, hey, maybe you’re just too stupid to understand any of this, but at least whoever is helping you is willing to give back the only family you’ve ever known, the only loves in your life. You and your father, all these long months, after five minutes he turns to you and says, “It’s done.” Your life for the last four months, all these shitty things you’ve done, well, hey, at least you can say that you did all of this for Sam, for your father, and, hey, at least you’ll have something to show for it. You and your stupid sense of faith, well, you’re willing to believe in anything now, after all of this, after everything.

It takes your father four months to track down everything he needs to know, but after that, well, Sam takes his first breath. Dallas’ body, your faux brother’s skin, his hair, his eyes, it’s Dallas’ voice that reaches your ears, but it’s Sam’s dialect, it’s Sam’s tone. Dallas’ hands reaching towards your face, caressing the bridge of your nose, the high of your cheekbone, your brow, but, really, it’s Sam’s touch, Sam’s movements. Nothing Dallas hasn’t done before, resting his mouth on yours, sliding his hand behind your neck, nothing Dallas has ever shied away from, but it’s Sam’s lips, Sam’s breath, and, well, hey, there’s a first time for everything.

Dallas’ voice whispered in your hair, but it’s Sam’s words, you and your stupid sense of release, there’s nothing manly about any of this, but you just can’t help the tears on your face. You and your stupid sense of reprieve, well, Dallas’ lips pressed hard against your skin, Sam says, “Dean?”


End file.
